Post by Jules on Aug 8, 2013 6:23:21 GMT -4
Book IV: Enter The Asylum
Chapter II: Friendly Fire
It was a time when the pendulum had swung against The Guv’nor. For once in his APW career success had eluded him, but he wasn’t looking for excuses or scapegoats. This was a man fixed in his mind the principle that his destiny lay in the power of his own hands. He couldn’t right the way he felt wronged two weeks before, but Lenny was never one to piss and moan about it.
Inside the Asylum Action Zone, The Guv’nor was ready, cameras rolling, lights on him. The internet and the world of APW awaited. It was time to deliver another ‘Guvnor’s Gab’.
*
From the archives of Action Packed Wrestling: The Guv’nor’s Gab (transcript #20)
Didn’t somebody say something once about Hell being other people? I remember hearing it said before. I haven’t a clue who gabbed those words but he was probably French or German or something- I can’t think of any other reason why he would think so low of people. Maybe he was a professional wrestler because lawd above I never met a bigger collection of no-good bastards as this fraternity.
Last week I learnt the very truth of the saying though. I wouldn’t say everything is going luvvly jubbly, ‘cause I was in the middle of a proper scrap with that Emerald Assassin. I wasn’t exactly in control of the situation, know what I’m saying, but as always The Guv’nor is always in with a fighting chance and all it takes is one blow from these evil fists or the touch of a Gypsy Kiss and it’s good night sweetheart. But then that slag Young Mannie had to get involved.
One of the problems of being the absolute Guv’nor on the cobbles is you always going to find mugs out there looking for a rep, and being the slags they are it’s always a cheap shot here or there. None of them got the cobblers to come and lay a hand on you, or if they do it’s always with some firm at their back. Young Mannie is no different, but the time and the place will come when all that bad deeds he sowed rush him with a foul crop of hatred and agony from yours truly.
On the theme of having to endure others this week I got to venture back into the ring. Ordinarily that isn’t a problem because with a smile on my face I go to work every day, especially when my job is essentially operating the wrestler’s knacker’s yard. But this week some brainwave in the universe has saw fit to team me up with someone in a tag match.
Let me make a confession that may not be so surprising to you: I don’t play nice with others.
It goes right back to when I was a nipper and the Games teacher, Mr. Phelps, didn’t know what to do with me, so in the usual team games he made it Lenny versus the rest of ‘em. Most kiddies would see it as a punishment, but wise old Mr. Phelps knew it was the only way he could ensure at least half a dozen saps didn’t go home with bruises. Miracles do happen though; despite the odds Lenny won every week in football. But then I understand how someone windmilling at the same time as dribbling a football won’t exactly encourage you to stick your plates in, know what I’m saying?
Cher tells me I got trust issues, but I think she’s been watching too much of that Jeremy Kyle bollocks. Anyway, of course I got trust issues; look at this world we live in. He’s bombing him, they are spying on them, and everywhere you go there is some camera looking in at your life. We live under a microscope, so of course I’m paranoid and looking over my shoulder. On top of all that I make my living in the world of backstabbers. There are queer wings in the old shovel where your back door is safer than it is on the cobbles of this show. So you can understand why I’m always looking over my shoulder.
This time I got myself fixed up with Keaton Saint; not just an Englishman, but a Londoner just like meself- although I know the matey’s from up West so he’s got about as much in common with yours truly as a Chinaman. What’s more I suppose this one of them special moments when I’ll be able to look back ‘cause I was a part of a small slice of history. But I ain’t going there to get the autograph of some wrestling geriatric; like every day I got my eyes only on the tear up.
I’m not unfamiliar with Keaton Saint though. You’d think being from the same town we might have come across one another- well if you’re American that is. It always puzzles me when Americans discover you’re English and they ask you if you know such and such. The name don’t ring a bell, so you ask ‘em where he’s from and they tell you he was from Glasgow or Liverpool. You having a fucking bubble, mate! Do these pricks even know the difference between London and Liverpool? Lawd above I smashed a few gobby scousers in my time, but it’s a million fucking miles away my son.
Anyway I digress; where was I? Oh yeah, Keaton Saint. Many moons ago me and a few geezers went along to this wrestling event. It could’ve been the MMA, but it’s so fucking second rate in England, and if I go to the boxing even if I’m not fighting I know I got to put down some mug looking for a rep by the end of the night. So we went along to have a proper laugh at these funny looking tarts in their spandex, like Mr. Motivator with a bad hair day. I remember the main event had this proper weird looking geezer- well, at first I had to doubt me eyes for all the hair.
So they introduced him as ‘Keaton Saint’ and I looked at him with his silly make-up, that daft hair and I thought to myself ‘what a fucking melt!’ Lawd above, I swear I could’ve sat through hours of Mickey Flanagan and I wouldn’t have laughed as hard as I did when I saw this greasy, long-haired mug enter the ring. Even a little piss came out, know what I’m saying?
Well, the geezer could fight. He looked like a fucking tranny after the pimp’s finished with him, but he could handle himself in the ring. Proper graceful too in his movements and the fans loved him. I remember sitting in that community centre and thinking to myself one day this will be me- minus the tranny fashion of course.
So here I am about to team up with Keaton Saint. I wouldn’t go as far as to say he’s a hero because, well, he’s looks like a mug and by all accounts he’s a big time choker. But it’ll be a pleasure to team with you Keaton, but all I ask is you don’t continue a habit of a lifetime this week, otherwise I might forced to bash those Putney plums down their throat. Respect, bruv!
Across the ring is Logan Alexander. Somebody out there probably thinks it’s ironic that I’m against you Logan after the events of last week. Personally I find it frustrating that I’m going to smash you and I don’t get to take away the Tap Out Championship from you.
Last week I said I understand the power of gold, but I look at you Logan and I see its perils. Like the story in the Bible you got into bed with the wrong woman- well not literally because it seems Aubrey don’t have a taste for wrinkled old Johns. But Jezebel turned on you bruv, but like a eunuch you failed to act on instinct. Me, I would have thrown that slut to the dogs and wouldn’t have spared a morsel; but you grieve for a woman who played the world’s biggest cock tease on you. Logan, don’t give me that ‘friendship’ cobblers, that’s the card mugs play when they know they’ve been taken for ride.
But pray, do tell: there must have been a time when Aubrey decided to do a ‘friend’ a favour and drop your trews. What happened in that intimate moment- did you flop, or was it the sight of your saggy balls that repulsed Parker? How else do you explain that desperate effort at Test For The Best better than a pathetic strike at reconciliation by a lover scorned? Is that why you wear the mask nowadays Logan- is it the shame you cannot bear; the shame of being rejected for Sienna Harrison’s brother? Or is it because when you look at yourself old son you see the cock but realise the Morris you chased has a bigger set of cobblers?
Maybe it’s because you’re a lazy champion and you know that while you’ve never been tested you remain a trophy champion. But that’s not your fault though- you don’t pick the challengers, isn’t that right, bruv?
But this week you get a proper champion, my son- make no mistake about that. Listen bruv, I know you can fight; I’m not so disingenuous to doubt that. But this is a cut above the William Wiliams’ and the Christian Kane’s of this world. You don’t get to cruise through a match with The Guv’nor in second knowing somewhere down the line there will be a mistake you can pounce on.
Logan, you were the man when I signed to Meltdown and it’s always been at the back of my mind that you are the one I didn’t get to beat. It sickens me now that Young Mannie did that, but this week we can go some way to putting that right by giving the people a slice of what they deserved: former North American Champion versus former North American- the two greatest of them all.
But don’t bring that pathetic melt of a personality to the ring, the one that wears the mask, the one that doesn’t see that he was fucked, and not the other way round. Bring the chaos, my son, ‘cause that’s how we do.
Speaking about slags with a mask I’m reminded of Reaver. Bruv, you think I have forgotten about what you and your no-good bastard mates Foul Play did to me not so long ago. I’m like an elephant, my son, but with an unhealthy slice of human vengeance- unhealthy for you that is.
Reaver, you’re a shadow, bruv; but worryingly for you I’m not afraid of the dark. You’re a shadow because you’re not a real man; you’re someone pretending to be one. I don’t know who Johnny Knuckles was, nor do I give a monkey’s arsehole if I’m being honest; he’s just another grain of sand in a sea in a sea of luckless losers.
The records show Johnny Knuckles to be an undistinguished man, with the odd fluke here or there to break up a career defined by mediocrity. Harsh words, my son? Well let it be your motivation, bruv. After that’s your life and nobody else’s I’m describing, and that’s the only one you got.
I don’t know why you wear a mask, but I don’t care either. Like Jim Carey said in The Mask ‘we all wear masks metaphorically speaking’, but I guess it’s the purpose that matters. What’s your purpose, Reaver? Is it like Logan’s, to hide your shame? Do you think it somehow empowers you? The fact is it’s the same skin and bones, the same muscles, the same man who lost all them matches underneath the mash. Maybe it’s just an expression of personality; that’s cool bruv, but my fists are an expression of mine, and mask or no mask I will put you down and I will make you feel pain.
Reaver, I know you thrive in the violent situations, but I’m not Stefan Raab, or any other professional wrestler born and raised on a diet of rules of technicalities. I was dragged up by the streets. I’m a street fighter so I only know one way: that’s to scrap, to keep on coming whatever, and never to take a backwards step. In Hackney you aren’t judged by how big your house or your car, it’s the scars you wear that matters. The scars mean you’re a survivor and in my world that’s all you have because all we can do is survive, know what I’m saying?
Reaver, I don’t know why you and your matey boys did what you did; I’m not even asking for an explanation. But I expect you to pay for it you no-good piece of slime, and the only currency I’m taking on Sunday, my son, is your blood!
End.
From the archives of Action Packed Wrestling: The Guv’nor’s Gab (transcript #20)
Didn’t somebody say something once about Hell being other people? I remember hearing it said before. I haven’t a clue who gabbed those words but he was probably French or German or something- I can’t think of any other reason why he would think so low of people. Maybe he was a professional wrestler because lawd above I never met a bigger collection of no-good bastards as this fraternity.
Last week I learnt the very truth of the saying though. I wouldn’t say everything is going luvvly jubbly, ‘cause I was in the middle of a proper scrap with that Emerald Assassin. I wasn’t exactly in control of the situation, know what I’m saying, but as always The Guv’nor is always in with a fighting chance and all it takes is one blow from these evil fists or the touch of a Gypsy Kiss and it’s good night sweetheart. But then that slag Young Mannie had to get involved.
One of the problems of being the absolute Guv’nor on the cobbles is you always going to find mugs out there looking for a rep, and being the slags they are it’s always a cheap shot here or there. None of them got the cobblers to come and lay a hand on you, or if they do it’s always with some firm at their back. Young Mannie is no different, but the time and the place will come when all that bad deeds he sowed rush him with a foul crop of hatred and agony from yours truly.
On the theme of having to endure others this week I got to venture back into the ring. Ordinarily that isn’t a problem because with a smile on my face I go to work every day, especially when my job is essentially operating the wrestler’s knacker’s yard. But this week some brainwave in the universe has saw fit to team me up with someone in a tag match.
Let me make a confession that may not be so surprising to you: I don’t play nice with others.
It goes right back to when I was a nipper and the Games teacher, Mr. Phelps, didn’t know what to do with me, so in the usual team games he made it Lenny versus the rest of ‘em. Most kiddies would see it as a punishment, but wise old Mr. Phelps knew it was the only way he could ensure at least half a dozen saps didn’t go home with bruises. Miracles do happen though; despite the odds Lenny won every week in football. But then I understand how someone windmilling at the same time as dribbling a football won’t exactly encourage you to stick your plates in, know what I’m saying?
Cher tells me I got trust issues, but I think she’s been watching too much of that Jeremy Kyle bollocks. Anyway, of course I got trust issues; look at this world we live in. He’s bombing him, they are spying on them, and everywhere you go there is some camera looking in at your life. We live under a microscope, so of course I’m paranoid and looking over my shoulder. On top of all that I make my living in the world of backstabbers. There are queer wings in the old shovel where your back door is safer than it is on the cobbles of this show. So you can understand why I’m always looking over my shoulder.
This time I got myself fixed up with Keaton Saint; not just an Englishman, but a Londoner just like meself- although I know the matey’s from up West so he’s got about as much in common with yours truly as a Chinaman. What’s more I suppose this one of them special moments when I’ll be able to look back ‘cause I was a part of a small slice of history. But I ain’t going there to get the autograph of some wrestling geriatric; like every day I got my eyes only on the tear up.
I’m not unfamiliar with Keaton Saint though. You’d think being from the same town we might have come across one another- well if you’re American that is. It always puzzles me when Americans discover you’re English and they ask you if you know such and such. The name don’t ring a bell, so you ask ‘em where he’s from and they tell you he was from Glasgow or Liverpool. You having a fucking bubble, mate! Do these pricks even know the difference between London and Liverpool? Lawd above I smashed a few gobby scousers in my time, but it’s a million fucking miles away my son.
Anyway I digress; where was I? Oh yeah, Keaton Saint. Many moons ago me and a few geezers went along to this wrestling event. It could’ve been the MMA, but it’s so fucking second rate in England, and if I go to the boxing even if I’m not fighting I know I got to put down some mug looking for a rep by the end of the night. So we went along to have a proper laugh at these funny looking tarts in their spandex, like Mr. Motivator with a bad hair day. I remember the main event had this proper weird looking geezer- well, at first I had to doubt me eyes for all the hair.
So they introduced him as ‘Keaton Saint’ and I looked at him with his silly make-up, that daft hair and I thought to myself ‘what a fucking melt!’ Lawd above, I swear I could’ve sat through hours of Mickey Flanagan and I wouldn’t have laughed as hard as I did when I saw this greasy, long-haired mug enter the ring. Even a little piss came out, know what I’m saying?
Well, the geezer could fight. He looked like a fucking tranny after the pimp’s finished with him, but he could handle himself in the ring. Proper graceful too in his movements and the fans loved him. I remember sitting in that community centre and thinking to myself one day this will be me- minus the tranny fashion of course.
So here I am about to team up with Keaton Saint. I wouldn’t go as far as to say he’s a hero because, well, he’s looks like a mug and by all accounts he’s a big time choker. But it’ll be a pleasure to team with you Keaton, but all I ask is you don’t continue a habit of a lifetime this week, otherwise I might forced to bash those Putney plums down their throat. Respect, bruv!
Across the ring is Logan Alexander. Somebody out there probably thinks it’s ironic that I’m against you Logan after the events of last week. Personally I find it frustrating that I’m going to smash you and I don’t get to take away the Tap Out Championship from you.
Last week I said I understand the power of gold, but I look at you Logan and I see its perils. Like the story in the Bible you got into bed with the wrong woman- well not literally because it seems Aubrey don’t have a taste for wrinkled old Johns. But Jezebel turned on you bruv, but like a eunuch you failed to act on instinct. Me, I would have thrown that slut to the dogs and wouldn’t have spared a morsel; but you grieve for a woman who played the world’s biggest cock tease on you. Logan, don’t give me that ‘friendship’ cobblers, that’s the card mugs play when they know they’ve been taken for ride.
But pray, do tell: there must have been a time when Aubrey decided to do a ‘friend’ a favour and drop your trews. What happened in that intimate moment- did you flop, or was it the sight of your saggy balls that repulsed Parker? How else do you explain that desperate effort at Test For The Best better than a pathetic strike at reconciliation by a lover scorned? Is that why you wear the mask nowadays Logan- is it the shame you cannot bear; the shame of being rejected for Sienna Harrison’s brother? Or is it because when you look at yourself old son you see the cock but realise the Morris you chased has a bigger set of cobblers?
Maybe it’s because you’re a lazy champion and you know that while you’ve never been tested you remain a trophy champion. But that’s not your fault though- you don’t pick the challengers, isn’t that right, bruv?
But this week you get a proper champion, my son- make no mistake about that. Listen bruv, I know you can fight; I’m not so disingenuous to doubt that. But this is a cut above the William Wiliams’ and the Christian Kane’s of this world. You don’t get to cruise through a match with The Guv’nor in second knowing somewhere down the line there will be a mistake you can pounce on.
Logan, you were the man when I signed to Meltdown and it’s always been at the back of my mind that you are the one I didn’t get to beat. It sickens me now that Young Mannie did that, but this week we can go some way to putting that right by giving the people a slice of what they deserved: former North American Champion versus former North American- the two greatest of them all.
But don’t bring that pathetic melt of a personality to the ring, the one that wears the mask, the one that doesn’t see that he was fucked, and not the other way round. Bring the chaos, my son, ‘cause that’s how we do.
Speaking about slags with a mask I’m reminded of Reaver. Bruv, you think I have forgotten about what you and your no-good bastard mates Foul Play did to me not so long ago. I’m like an elephant, my son, but with an unhealthy slice of human vengeance- unhealthy for you that is.
Reaver, you’re a shadow, bruv; but worryingly for you I’m not afraid of the dark. You’re a shadow because you’re not a real man; you’re someone pretending to be one. I don’t know who Johnny Knuckles was, nor do I give a monkey’s arsehole if I’m being honest; he’s just another grain of sand in a sea in a sea of luckless losers.
The records show Johnny Knuckles to be an undistinguished man, with the odd fluke here or there to break up a career defined by mediocrity. Harsh words, my son? Well let it be your motivation, bruv. After that’s your life and nobody else’s I’m describing, and that’s the only one you got.
I don’t know why you wear a mask, but I don’t care either. Like Jim Carey said in The Mask ‘we all wear masks metaphorically speaking’, but I guess it’s the purpose that matters. What’s your purpose, Reaver? Is it like Logan’s, to hide your shame? Do you think it somehow empowers you? The fact is it’s the same skin and bones, the same muscles, the same man who lost all them matches underneath the mash. Maybe it’s just an expression of personality; that’s cool bruv, but my fists are an expression of mine, and mask or no mask I will put you down and I will make you feel pain.
Reaver, I know you thrive in the violent situations, but I’m not Stefan Raab, or any other professional wrestler born and raised on a diet of rules of technicalities. I was dragged up by the streets. I’m a street fighter so I only know one way: that’s to scrap, to keep on coming whatever, and never to take a backwards step. In Hackney you aren’t judged by how big your house or your car, it’s the scars you wear that matters. The scars mean you’re a survivor and in my world that’s all you have because all we can do is survive, know what I’m saying?
Reaver, I don’t know why you and your matey boys did what you did; I’m not even asking for an explanation. But I expect you to pay for it you no-good piece of slime, and the only currency I’m taking on Sunday, my son, is your blood!
End.
